A Quarter to Ten in the Morning
by The Solipsist
Summary: A short story, in progress, of hiding things from one another. A 'realistic' interpretation of the characters of Ben 10. Includes situations between Ben and Gwen.
1. I

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ben 10, its characters, or any of its related properties. In fact, if I did, I'd probably be water skiing or whatever you rich folk happen to do.**** Honestly, I don't own much of anything.**

**Additional information: ****My interests include chocolate and sweets, fugato leading to sweeping motifs (ending in strong cadences), ****and**** Asian-Hispanic women.**

**NOTE: These small sections will be grouped, eventually, into a larger (short story) format. **

* * *

He'd never been with a girl before, either relationship or otherwise, so in the expanding strains of early adolescence Ben Tennyson finally had to put himself to an angry bout of masturbation. It was around two in the morning and the high volume of his portable television had provided a better barrier than a calmed silence could have. He started first by pushing himself against the floor. He rocked and rocked, but it couldn't be helped; there were better ways to get the feeling he wanted. And of course, Ben didn't know what he was doing—he didn't even realize the hot clear liquid that pooled into his hands.

Nights had been fun endeavors for the boy, sure: fighting sleep without a reason other than to do so, playing marathons of video games new and old and generally eating a lot. He neglected the basics of hygiene, too, until his hair became slippery to the touch and his armpits felt red and wet constantly. A pattern of sleep deprivation and sleep, and lack of bathing and hot showers, continued in cycles of around three days, broken apart by a stale buffer of mindless bicycle riding. Ben's cousin had warned against these juvenile habits in her adopted wisdom; she scolded him, or pointed a small finger, or sometimes just laughed sarcastically. But it was a flawed wisdom—a mask of maturity—appropriately not unlike Ben's compulsion to stay up late.

Ben said, "Get out of the—Get out of the way, Gwen."

She crossed over a tangle of wires and picked up a few potato chips that were uncrushed on the permanently flattened carpeting. She'd leave the rest—the chips that hadn't been spared—to vacuuming.

"Alright, doofus. Chill out a second, won't ya?" she said.

To the right of the game console she took a moist rag ("Get it away from my 'box, that thing's gross.") and wiped around the side of it, picking up some more potato chips with her free hand. The cleaning was routine—that is, except for a tough sticky spot near the vents of the Xbox. Gwen looked at the rag innocently, and then accusingly pulled up her eyebrows towards Ben.

"What?" He felt guilt. He hadn't even washed his hands. But he knew already these worries were different from what she wanted him to feel guilty about.

"You didn't go to sleep last night, did you?" she ordered, and slapped off the portable television screen. The image, an overheating plasma rifle and red flash, disappeared.

"Shit! Gwen?" A fat black controller slammed on the floor and a clear blue x-button popped out. Ben's feet smashed some already cracked potato chips into finer particles. "What's your problem? Huh? Man."

"Can it a second. It's only _Halo_. You've beaten _Halo_ like six times. "

"Yeah but I never got any further than _AOTCR_ on Legendary," he corrected.

"Yes, Ben, yes you did. We both did! We beat it on co-op…" she said, looking around and putting the escapist gaming area into perspective. Chips were rained everywhere, _Fruit Rollups_ wrappers stuck out from underneath furniture. It smelled odd. "Jeez, this place is ridiculous."

"It's fine."

Ben picked his nose and stared at the cooling TV screen, which still felt hot—or at least it did from where his face was. There was sweat on his face, too. He'd been in the middle of a sleep-deprived panic, searching cautiously for a gold _Elite_, fearing its plasma blue, meter-long sword. He asked without looking at his cousin, "What makes you think I've been up _all_ night?"

Gwen wiped around the room, pulling objects out of corners and cleaning the 'problem spots' (as she liked to refer to them) they hid. But to Ben they were as nonexistent as the bacteria that exploded on his skin.

"Well, you know when people say something's really hot and they're like, "'Wow, I could probably cook some eggs on that?' Well it's kind of like that with the vents on this thing." She waved her hand by the Xbox again, recoiling. "Except instead of 'cooking', try melting. And instead of 'some eggs', try, 'some rocks.'"

He scoffed. "I forgot to turn it off. I still slept...really. There's no proof," he said indignantly. With his hands he played with the tips of the socks on his feet. She seemed to notice this.

"Whatever. Just pick up your clothes, at least. 'Kay?"

The screen did feel warm anymore; it wasn't.

"Uh-huh." He looked at her. "Where's Grandpa? When it's early he's usually coming in to say good morning to me or whatever." And he was right. Gwen's hand tightened, releasing a tiny portion of chips back into the carpet like sand through a sieve. Like sawdust.

"He's…he's probably just out getting things. Y'know, groceries and stuff. _Comestibles_," she said, remembering the word. "Now come on, help out a bit. And don't groan. Most of this is _your_ mess, Ben." Then she pet him playfully (even against her sense of hygiene), and he laughed.

"Okay, okay! Shit." Ben said, patting her off.

Gwen left the room smiling ("What a mouth…"), a small trash bag full of littered junk foods in her hand. She'd taken the rag too—and had even picked some _Fruit Rollups_ candy wrappers in a-matter-of-fact way, as if they'd been briefly forgotten. She'd done her part. But when she left, Ben didn't care to turn the TV screen back on at all. He got up and stretched, patting his slippery hair. He picked up the controller and, after failing to repair the blue button through aggravated force, placed it down carefully on the table. The table was dustless—even spotless in his coarse, young man's mind. He touched it with a dirt-covered finger; a deposit of greasy film was delivered to the stand's clean top, or the "once-dirty-then-once-clean" top. With destroyed awe Ben tried to wipe it off with his sweat-saturated white undershirt, but the stain simply spread out. And indifferently, the heat of the console began to scold him.

He shut off the Xbox. He picked up his mess of clothes. Then he picked out some clean underwear and a shirt, and headed to the bathroom so he could take a shower. Naked, he turned the water on, the heat soaring way up.


	2. II

"You're _really_ going to put me to sleep. Put on _Primus_ or something."

Gwen doesn't acknowledge this. The computer plays Dvorak's cello concerto in B minor—the allegro blossoms together along with mouse clicks—in a dangerous swoon of lyrical emotion in their tiny living space. She says mindlessly, "It's really chilly in here." The windows aren't open.

"I can't tell," Ben says, drying his damp hair with paper towels, a handful. Checking a second cabinet he picks out a strawberry flavored _Fruit Rollup_ and pulls it open entirely. He is amazed. "Aw, sweet! 'ese put 'atoos on your 'ongue." Now he can't see the candy marketing scheme himself, but he asks his cousin what the tattoos look like ("Ha. Stupid.") and if she wants half ("Thanks, but no. Please.").

Then Gwen looks at him, and clicks something far removed on her laptop. She is carefully lowering her music, slowly, in antagonism to the piece's sudden cusp of brilliance. She then fixes the vaguely childish rings that ornament her fingers. Ben stands in a small puddle, in dark shorts and a soggy t-shirt. Water droplets are stuck on his legs and toes. She starts at him.

"You mean—? Hah, you mean I didn't have to nag you more than fifty times? Wow."

"Funny, hilarious. No, obviously you didn't, Gwen. D-D-Dork—" Ben flares the novelty of the food-dye tattoo like a tribal marking, a muddy blue star set on his tongue.

"Fine, fine. But ever heard of a towel?" she remarks awkwardly.

Ben pinches his shirt and it snags back to his belly. "I think Grandpa took all of the towels to wash. I couldn't find one." He pats his hair some more with more (collapsing) paper towels. After this they became unusable, and he throws the shreds out, but continues to use his hands, pushing them through his scalp wildly. "Besides, I like how it feels when the water's between my toes," he says, wiggling them.

Her clicking stops.

"Ben," she says, and closes the laptop screen with genuine interest and concern. "You okay? Your game before—"

"Ah, whatever. Don't tease me about it. And I'm not holding a grudge or something, if that's what you're getting at. If anything, we can play later if you're up to it."

"Uh, sure. But, everything's okay with you?"

"Of course." He mashes on the clomp of _Fruit Rollup _in his mouth. "Why wouldn't it be? Something up?"

Her expression says that she's not satisfied.

Ben says, "Come on, what the matter? Something crawl up your—"

"Save it, pervert," she says unconsciously.

"Uh, my bad. Just messing with you. I don't get what you mean though. Everything's fine." Eyebrows and gesturing hands add, "right?"

"Well—"

She's about to explain the plagues of her mind when Max enters the living/kitchen space. An odor accompanies his sloppy movements. His arms seem tired from a sagging posture.

"'Morn'," he says without direction.

"Morning Grandpa," they parrot.

Max says something about the sun and the window shades and his grandchildren close them. Apparently he has been walking with his head down; he holds no groceries in his hands.

He sits down, palming his head. Like a plea, he says, "Water," and opens his shirt a few buttons down. Gwen rushes up with a glass, while Ben asks him where the towels are and is ignored.

"Just what I need," Max says. "Thanks, Gwen."

Ben says, "Grampa?"

"Jeez, it's freezing in here!"

"That's what I told him," Gwen says.

Again, "Grandpa? Where—"

"Ben, I don't know! Please!"

The sure way he says it brings his grandchildren to a frightened parity. And now Max is plunging the water down, he opens more buttons. The shirt is soon removed but Ben and Gwen make no move too fast, fearful that they may upset the delicate equilibrium their grandfather is trying to create. The shirt drops on the floor, and then the water is gone. Max is sweating without stop.

Ben runs in front of him. Gwen stammers, "Grampa—!"

He doesn't respond at all and the last thing he sees before his head knocks on the table is a gaping mouth, a ridiculous blue smudge on its tongue.

-

-

-

They find the first of his whiskey bottles. That is, together. Ben, who does not clean regularly, would never find such things, and even Max himself takes the immaculate nature of the RV for granted—or Gwen surmises as such, as he seems to take relatively little caution in hiding his 'stash'. It was put inside of the toilet tank, right near the flush mechanic. How did she discover it? The tank cover wobbled when she cleaned it.

The two cousins do not respond immediately to the half-empty bottle. It is brown, and not _Jack Daniels_ as Ben first assumes, but a cheaper variety of spirits, _Evan Williams_. They think innocently, even as their grandfather lay unconscious, that he has simply kept it there for a rare moment of relaxation. But Gwen's glued eyebrows correct any misconception; they are joined by the awful smell of toilet water. There have been more bottles, far more, Gwen states. Ben's eyes become estranged, betrayed by forces he can't understand.

They put the bottle back for normalcy's sake.

-

-

-

"This is so messed up," Ben says. He is no longer wet. Difficult breathing can be heard.

Gwen agrees.

They both want to shout or cry but it doesn't seem fitting. After all, at the moment their grandfather is the concern. He's pale. He's breathing slowly, oddly. He is the concern! Shouldn't they care?

But for some reason they lock back into embrace. Ben pushes her to the side of the RV—where the blinds are—and he's licking the side of her neck. He tastes flesh with every visceral bite, working upwards in a messy trail to her pink cheeks. She tastes good, Ben thinks. He rubs her surrendering arms, which too are covered in soft hairs, like the cheeks. She remembers petting him earlier in the day. Now she's _swimming_ her hands in his hair; she's _obsessed_ with his hair. It's on her, on top of her, beneath her in a bobbing mane—_whatever_, she thinks. She relaxes.

Then she touches the sides of his belly. His smell is natural, of loosely purified RV fresh water and the strong oils of his body he has failed to wash out in full. There is a hint of shampoo, very little. The combination may prove delicious, Gwen believes, wanting to lick him too, but she commands some control—she doesn't know where this could lead. And their grandfather—?

"B-b—"

A sweat has developed between them, and it masks whatever is left of Gwen's own bathed odor. Finally, she moans. Dogs, she remembers, tickle her—but he's different. It's new to both of them, and though Gwen has had a boyfriend she does not remember any such feeling or want. Ben has only touched women vicariously, through the pornography that has been forced into his youth like the burning edge of a _Plasma Sword_. He wants more. And, as if commanded by all the world's file sharing networks, he touches what is available of her breasts. She's—!

"Ben, chill out a second."

She stops her petting to restrain his shoulders. She's nervous now.

He looks at her, breathing in syncopated stutter. His shirt sticks to him yet again. "Y-yes?" is what comes out. With his far-off eyes, he reminds her of a beaten, ignorant puppy.

"What…what are we doing?" she asks, more so asking herself.

They recollect and he kisses her briefly again—a stylized attempt to seal away unmentionable awkwardness. But she walks past him blankly, ironing herself out as she heads to the cabinets. After checking them in order for coffee—although she very well knows where the coffee is—she pulls out a can of _Chock full o' Nuts_ and prepares some water. She looks downwards and commands Ben fix the blinds. In silence he reopens and closes them, momentarily looking through the clean windows at an obstructed sun.

They now wait for their grandfather.


	3. III

In her cleaning, there is no set pattern or routine. However, a vague sketch—or a schematic, it could be called—is available to Gwendolyn. It is the solitary and self-afflicted responsibility she carries; she keeps their living space bearable.

Today she began without much difference. Ripped from an already fading sleep by the sounds of video game gunfire, she stepped from her bunk and began a quick mental rundown of her 'problem areas.' There is the sink itself, with its slight coat of grime, and the nook behind the boxes of cereal in the closet that becomes loaded with corn flakes. There is the rug covered in muddy footprints, as always, and the spot under the counter that is perpetually stained with coffee…

Her morning stretches are brief. She stands cautiously for a few minutes, allowing blood to be circulated around her frozen lungs, and after this she tip-toes to the bathroom for the hygienic necessities.

She lays her toothbrush back down, and undresses. Pajama bottoms fall first to the heat-void floor, bland panties hugging the insides of them. Yawning, she picks them up. Then she separates the two pieces and pops them into the laundry sack. She rubs her eyes, pats the back of hair that is still on end. Groggy hands turn on the shower water—careful not to command too much heat at once or else risk blowing the old boiler—then remove her nightshirt in a single, effortless pull. The shirt, too, enters the sack.

Before Gwen allows her body to enter the water, she looks at it in the square mirror. On the mirror steam is condensing, and a figure, ambiguous in form, can just barely be seen. It appears as an orange blur sitting upon a pale mannequin. The mannequin takes her hand and rubs it carefully across the mirror surface, as if unearthing precious fossils, but no rare or monumental discovery can be made. It shoves her hand away and the droplets reform. Locked inside of this room, away from a child and a drunk, even she cannot see her own reflection.

-

-

-

By the time she enters the kitchen, she has scolded her cousin. He's hopeless, Gwen thinks. But as she works, scrubbing and dusting, words surface that bother her to such an extent that she has wiped the faucet handles nearly twenty times. She laughs to herself, kneeling down to the coffee stain; it comes off in one expert swipe of damp cloth. She still can't believe how no one notices these stains but her.

When she is sure she is alone—Ben, she believes, has continued playing video games against her warnings—god knows where their grandfather is _this_ time—she steps outside.

The area they've parked in is mostly woodlands, green and vague and the foliage moves with a far breeze. A bit generic, Gwen thinks, but she enjoys it regardless. The sun lurks like a sliver out on horizon and an unknown variety of bird or hawk is preying now; it flies in a figure-eight pattern below graying clouds. The air is flat and dry, but leisurely calms Gwen's damp hair. The area, like many others on their trip, is uninhabited mostly; still, Max mentioned a small town some sixty miles out.

The long grass flaps moist on her legs, and she becomes ashamedly self-aware. She checks again to see if she is alone—she is. As of now, she doesn't know how to bring up the subject of the whiskey bottle with Ben, but she's trying. She thinks, Maybe I should just confront him, maybe I should just attack Grandpa outright. Who knows what he could do? Imagine he storms in when he's like that? He's pretty big. What if he turns out a pervert, too? And, if he is—for Ben's sake—what if it's not for girls either? What about Ben? We should both call our parents right now and get the hell out of here.

But that won't do. She's paranoid, she believes. And after all, she is the stabilizer of their small, enclosed environment. She's keeping everything correct and in place! She tries to remember which chores she has yet to do, and what other adjustments can be made. She's only done a once-over of their make-shift home, when she puts it in perspective—surely there is more to do. She holds her head still with a free hand. In any case, she thinks, I shouldn't have turned the game off.

The hawk that flies over the woods has broken its pathway and strikes down. Then there is a long silence of breeze, chilled and impassive. With a sustained breath Gwen takes out a wrinkled cigarette, and lights it after three failed, shaky attempts.


	4. IV

**NOTE: I respect the rating guidelines present on this site; therefore, in adherence to a 'T' rating, please know that the following section contains (slightly) stronger language and content than those sections before it.**

**Either way, hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Max is conscious and begins to apologize. He says he's been sleeping oddly as of late. 

"Yeah, trouble and all. Headaches, that is. Bad ones. I get a ton of 'em lately, really guys. Don't worry about it," he adds.

Ben can't answer. Gwen does. She says, "That was really, really scary Grandpa. We didn't know what we should do."

"Hey now, I'm alright. I'm sorry that had to happen."

He smells of dirt and sharp maple, and there are deep circles of sweat on his undershirt. His eyelids wince occasionally, as there is sweat, too, dripping down from his soiled gray hair, and his hands are not steady. He palms them, and smells them. He picks a small pebble out of a cracked fingernail. Then Max manages a lazy smile, and studies Gwen for a second. He adjusts the retreating eyelids, and wipes off more sweat. "Gwen," he says, focusing, "you like those Fruit 'Roll'ems' too? Always got the impression you didn't care for candy like that."

An immeasurable embarrassment overcomes her, complete with stutters. How could she not have realized? Could so much of it have rubbed off on her tongue? Then she touches her lips. Is it even just _on_ her tongue? How…?

But before she can produce a lame excuse, her cousin takes over.

"Yeah, right. Grandpa, she knows they're, like, my favorite. She definitely just did it out of spite." It's believable. And although she doesn't have the willpower right now, she tries; she works with it.

"Those things are _so_ not good for you! And, well, _maybe_, if you'd clean up a bit, Ben—even if you just threw some things away—I wouldn't get so pissed and then—"

"See? See Grandpa? Totally spiteful."

"Yeah, well, it's better it's gone anyway." Gwen says, crossing her arms.

"Then throw it out or something if you're gonna make a point like that! You ate it, dweeb!"

They're good. _Convincing._ At least for now.

"Alright, you two, that's enough!" The roar is produced and they're satisfied, believing he has forgotten about the blue stain in Gwen's mouth. Her clutched hands relax and she can breathe again. She sees that Max, too, is of no mind to continue; he tells them he's going to get some rest now.

As Max lifts his weight and stands, Ben notices the dried saliva packed as crust on his grandfather's oily face. The face is still pale, but a red coat is returning steadily…

-

-

-

The two nights pass. Max has taken a slow walk, like the nights before. He has left his personal affects scattered around, and his shirt thrown on a seat. There has been the casual presence of silence: nothing but the hum of the boiler or the motor home engine. Outside, as the local weathermen stated, the temperature has dropped another five degrees, although the winds have (mostly) died down and there are—for now—more hours of sunlight than darkness.

The members of the Tennyson 'household' have taken to their respective vices, yet no mention is made of the moment between the cousins. That is, until Gwen takes up Ben's offer of playing _Halo_ co-operative mode together….

"Little bastards…"

There is assault rifle fire on-screen.

She thinks, then manages, "That was…nice, Ben."

"Ha-ha, thanks. Let's face it—I make shit-work of the Flood." He throws a grenade, and shrapnel eats through rows of alien critters. This is followed by a shotgun burst. "Fuckin' aced. Ha!"

She places her hand on his leg.

"I'm not talking about that—"

He pauses their game and faces her. "Gwen, come on, don't do this."

"But you covered for me the other day, when Grandpa got up."

"Stop," Ben says. "It's not even like he knew what happened." He continues playing without her.

"Well, yeah, you're right, but…I mean."

She coughs harshly, leaning forward.

"You need something to drink?" he asks, pausing the game again.

"No," she says through a cupped hand. "It's okay, thanks. But, look, Ben." He looks at her. "I just…I feel so terrible about it. It's so, so, so messed up, what we did. And while Grandpa was—"

He unpauses. "Come on, it just happened, okay? It wasn't, like, done on purpose or whatever, you know? It just happened, right?"

"But why—"

A sharp cough, again, and saliva spills out, strewn into her hands. But the cough is different. It degrades. Rising in volume, the light timbre of a sob is heard. Gwen's character is surrounded by hulking aliens on-screen, and drops with a red flash.

"Gwen, I—"

Ben turns his head anxiously from the television screen to his cousin, caught between empathizing with her and securing his victory. Dozens of baseball-sized aliens dance in a swarm ("Ah, shit!") across the screen. "Look, just…chill out…Gwen…" A red flash of death appears. "Fuck!"

"God! Why—why did we do it? I don't understand!" She's shaking. Her face has swelled, oily and pink: pink ripping in red, red ripe into tears. She tries to look up into Ben's confused face, but has to cower back. It's not right, she thinks, everything is completely wrong. Everything.

She pulls her shirt up, trying to cover her face, an action which shoots Ben's hands off of her shoulders.

He says, "Gwen, I'm just trying to help—

"Stop!" she shouts. "Just—just stop it, really!"

She continues to cough and cry, hiding for several minutes, during which Ben stands up and shuts off the game and television.

"Gwen, look," he says, and his eyes sink to the side, "Lately I've been doing some things that are, um, kind of…"

"Weird?" she says, and sniffs with a light laugh.

"Yeah, I guess."

She smiles, still red. "Ben, stop it. You're my dweeb cousin, so of course you're always doing something weird. But what I'm talking about is different. You're a kind person. And what happened was wrong. And if anything," she says, looking into her tear-spotted t-shirt, "We did it at a such a stupidly inappropriate time. Grandpa needs help, Ben. You know that, right?"

"I know," he says. "But I don't know how or _if _we can help. He's still our Grandpa. But then—but then I thought, 'What if he does something to you?'"

"Yeah, I thought about that, too. I don't even want to think about it."

She takes his hands.

"Listen, I am so, so sorry that this had to happen, Ben."

Ben calms into a smile ("Don't worry about it, Gwen. I'm sorry, too."), and pets her head.

"Thanks, Ben."

"We'll get through this."

But he's lying, of course. He hates himself for it, but he's lying. He thinks of all those nights he's endured—alone and aroused, miles away from any girls his age, harassed by MPEG and AVI files of breasts of all sizes and races—and a menacing belief returns to him. And when he kneels down to accept the hug she offers, he can only offer back a perfectly masked smile. So he does this; he smiles.

His face goes unseen by the nature of their comforting hold, and her warmth fuels the air of her pubescent smell. Sobs are still heard in miniscule pulse. But then there is a howl and the RV rattles; a brief but violent wind has knocked right through their living space. Gwen shudders and clings closer.

Ben knows she is off-guard now.

A few strands of her burnt-orange hair hang near his mouth, but he resists himself. He breathes out, and slowly licks his lips.

-

-

-

Tonight he staggered home early. Something the weatherman said about possible hail probably got him worried. Ah, _Good ol' Max_. Good ol' Max stumbled in after fumbling with his keys for a bit. I heard him.

"'Ello? Ben? Gwen? Anyone? Why's this door locked? Everything alright here?"

He sat the _Evan Williams_ bottle down beside the door opening. I know; I heard the bottle _click_ down. But it must've been when he came up, trying to regain his fatty balance, that he saw it:

FUCKING BASTARD WILL DIE TONIGHT...


	5. V

**Thanks everyone for the all of the reviews, favorites and the like, as well as your continued reading!**

**NOTE: Language warning, continued. **

* * *

"Take these, Gwen." 

She blinks. "W-what?"

"Just take them," he says.

He shovels the pills into her mouth, then hands her a glass of warm water. He strokes her head. Upon this—and hearing his voice—her involuntary hesitation collapses. She swallows the pills.

"What did you just give me?"

"It's just aspirin," he says, turning the bottle in his hands, "But I think it's expired. I mean, it won't do any harm but, uh, it doesn't hurt to try anyway. You know?"

She nods. The pills are effortlessly sinking into the center of her stomach.

"I guess…"

Ben picks himself up. "You want something to eat?" he asks. He buries his head in the freezer, and hunts for the breakfast items. He then piles the boxes on the counter, stacking them without regard for weight or volume. "I dunno how to cook but, um, I'm a mean microwave fiend!"

Gwen looks outside to a . "Grandpa? Where is he?"

A box of _Eggo_ waffles. A carton of pancakes. Frozen bacon.

"Uh, probably…outside, wandering or something. How about a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit?" He shows her the box. Her head motions disagreement.

She says, "It's blurry; last night I mean. I think heard someone breaking things…"

Ben puts the contents back. "Well—Gwen, maybe it's kind of for the best. Do you even want to remember what happened? Grampa's—he's…" He closes the freezer door, then rubs his side steadily.

"Go on," she says, focusing on the shoulder. It weakens her, looking at it.

"He's an animal, Gwen. That's what he is. You had to see the way he came in last night—he scared the shit out of me. Yelling and cursing." He resists the urge to laugh; she lifts off her small blanket, and walks towards him. "_Throwing_."

"This is from…" she says, watching him rub, not having to finish her words. He feels no need to answer.

"I tried to keep him away from you, I really did. But…"

"My head feels about three times its size," she says, and laughs awkwardly.

"I tried, I really did. He came like a tank."

He takes some of her hair, and plays with it, staring at her nose. It's a nice, compact nose, he thinks, _just_ _right_. A 'sprinkle' of freckles. Not too oily. It rounds out wonderfully.

"He didn't try anything—?"

"I didn't let him," Ben says, making sure to rub his shoulder in just the right tempo. "I _couldn't_ let him. I don't know how I did, but I got him out of here."

She collects him, draws his face into hers. Should they intersect? She peers vertically, examining like a connoisseur—upwards, downwards, gathering all she can of this _boy_.His neck is smooth, sinking slightly near the soft collarbone. When he breathes, it jumps in a small spasm. Even his hands, as stubby and inarticulate as they are…are _cute_.

"Gwen, we shouldn't—"

But he's erect. His words mean nothing; even to him, his words mean nothing.

She says, "It doesn't even matter anymore."

They kiss. Once.

Swallowing her saliva, _remembering_ the feel of her tongue, Ben questions himself. How can he go about this? How can he phrase it…? To get what he wants…

"Gwen? Um, look, I—"

"Just be quiet…"

She wraps the lower half of her leg around his, pulling closer. He may not have to say much. She grasps the button of his pants. _You were always a smart one_.

"You're gonna be my lucky girl, Gwen..."

-

-

-

_I need to get out of here._

_Come on, you can do it. Just pull yourself together._

_Come on, yeah, steady. Keep it up. Keep it up…_

_Damn it. __Lost the grip there._

_Okay now, you can do this—oh boy. My back hurts likes a _mother

_Jesus H._

_Alright, once more just climb up—ignore that, the water's not that cold—yeah, you've got it._

_Half my life._

_Uh, stupid bugs._

_I spent half my life working to give my own kids something to live off of. Now they've got me leashing their own around, spoiled yuppies. What I worked! _Plumbing_ for god's sake.__ It wasn't a gold trade either, back when I did it—people _died_ on the job. Phil…god damn; fell in the cesspool. I couldn't take a shit for weeks without cringing after that one._

_Speaking of which—I smell horrible. Is that me? Jeez-us._

_Okay, again, and again. You'll teach that little bastard __good__. Just get the hell up!_

_There we go._

_That's it._

_You're up. Stand tall, now._

_But where the hell am I?_

_Son of bitching—I can't even feel my legs. What a mess. What a god damned mess._

_-_

_-_

_- _

They lie still, naked. What they have done has crossed several barriers of social taboo. At least, that's what they've been told.

Can words be spoken? They're not even thinking about what they've done. Ben is thinking of replacing his old _Xbox_ console when he gets back with the _Xbox 360_, possibly upgrading his home computer with a new graphics card, even some ram. Gwen wants to go the theatre; she hasn't seen a play in months, and by now even the close-by, amateur productions she's pulled up on _MapQuest_ look appealing.

Gwen's head is on his stomach, but she's positioned away from his sight. He strokes her hair leisurely; he is far more entranced by the strength of the mid-day light through the spotty window. Tonight, he'll make the bacon and eggs. It'll be a funny and delicious treat. He's sure she'll love it.

He closes his eyes, seeing her breathe so calmly. Now everything is perfect, he believes—they've shared a love many would die for! That is, except for one thing, of which he tasted in her mouth—the cigarettes must go. Of all things, how could she do this to herself? Isn't everything perfect? Isn't it? He's going to have to teach her how to treat herself better.

He says, "Gwen, how about we go for a ride?"

-

-

-

_I'll kill him. Striking me over the head with—Jesus Christ, is there still glass in my head?_

_He couldn't have dragged me far._

_Right?_

_But he probably moved the RV._

_I wouldn't put it past him, anyhow. I'm no good, and __neither's__ his dad, but he'll probably be the worst. You put kids on this earth, and you try to do good for yourself, and good for them. They try to do the same. That's how it works. But for some reason, when you try to do good—when you try to do the right thing, and try to provide and teach and learn—you fail; and in the end it all goes to _shit.

_And all these trees…god, it all looks the same..._

_I should've told him, how I got the wrong vibe. You can always tell when they're 'short a can'. I saw the crazy the pictures the kid drew—weird shit, really. __Glowing monsters with tentacles and all this crap.__People on fire.__ Some little watch. I could tell he was a _nutcase_, day one._

_The other one, she was fine, yeah. Probably a gene skipped her, that's what__. Always did her homework; always did well in school. _Always_ knew the right thing without being told much. She'll do well for herself._

_But for now, I've __gotta__ find this little bastard._

_I can't even call the police; Christ, I'm not even supposed to be driving. If they find me without a license—Mud tracks? Tire tracks. Ha, you''re fucking kidding me. Could it _be_ more obvious?_

_Jeez, what am I saying? I'm not going to piss away my luck, not now._


End file.
